Twelve-year old girls usually come in twos and I was no exception. Attached to my prepubescent hip was my all-time buddy and life long pal, Kim. Together we witnessed the first coveted signs of growing up: The Beloved Pimple (she got hers first), The First Dark Hair ANYWHERE (she got hers first) and of course, The Fateful Symbol of Utter Womanhood: any sign of a Boob (she got hers first (okay, so I was a rather late bloomer)). Even the illusion of the first signs of affection from a crooned-over unattainable boy like super cute Mark Decasola (to whom I readily handed over my much-coveted Venezuelan candy bar at lunch just for a flash of those amazing pearly whites) was done hand in hand. She always told me I was too good for him.Even though …Read on

There is something deliciously comforting about a home infused with the smell of freshly fried bacon. Mind you, this is coming from a Jew, obviously not hard-core, heck, if I am ranting and raving about pork, then I barely qualify as soft-boiled. As much as I try to remember and light the Shabbat candles, diligently send the kids to Torah school, and always leave a cup full of wine for Elijah during Passover, when it comes to bacon, I crumble (no pun intended).My kids seem to feel just as strongly about this food item as I do. Never aiming to simplify things, one insists on eating it one notch before burnt while the other begs me to serve it straight out of the package (I never do). The obsession is apparently a generational thing. Growing …Read on